A Hellish Foe : Elite Crews Risk Their Lives to Gain Control of Wildfires

Helicopter 901 thundered toward the towering pillar of smoke with six men and a woman ready to charge a hellish foe, alone, with only hand tools and no escape route.

Since 1973, one of their comrades in the elite vanguard firefighting corps has died and 11 have been seriously injured doing what even soldiers try to avoid: Attacking a deadly force without help and with little chance of getting away if things go badly.

‘Breaking All the Rules’

As state fire Capt. Dan Burns, aboard Helicopter 901 from the Vina helicopter attack (helitack) base just north of Chico, put it: “We’re breaking all the rules by going in in front of the fire and watching our escape route (901) fly away.”

Just two weeks before, a firestorm had trapped Vina’s helitack crew, which weathered the inferno inside heat-resistant fire tents. It was, however, too much for one of the firefighters, who panicked and ran, was rescued by a crew captain and was later fired.

“Air 901 is five minutes out,” pilot Jim Costa radioed, his eyes scanning the flames that were racing over a mountain on a rugged oak-studded ranch in Tehama County, northwest of Chico.

‘Shake and Bake’ Tents

Gloved hands of the state Department of Forestry and Fire Protection crew, a tiny force designed to swiftly control a fire before it gets big, rechecked yellow fire-resistant suits, plastic helmets and belts bristling with up to 30 pounds of gear.

Each member of the crew, reduced in strength to allow a reporter along, packed a Bible-sized pouch containing one of the heat-reflecting “shake and bake” tents they might have to flop open again and dive into if overrun by fire.

Two heads huddled, but a joke and laughter were lost in the clatter of the lime-green Huey UH-1F helicopter, one of the workhorses of the Vietnam War. Instead, hand signals flashed across the cramped compartment that smelled a lot of fuel and a little of sweat.

Suddenly, the helicopter tilted so the crew was staring out side windows at flames below. As 901 circled the blaze for a few seconds, the two crew captains and pilot--in a clipped language of their own--picked a landing zone and path of attack for the firefighters.

No matter what happened, the crew was on its own. Fixed-wing air tankers dispatched to drop retardant had yet to arrive. Fire engines were still lumbering over winding roads miles away.

“This is the kind of fire that will be up to us to hold,” said Burns, the 35-year-old lead captain.

The ship touched down in an explosion of dust at the base of the mountain. The crew, which continually trains for this moment, was still for a second but, on the captain’s signal, erupted in a choreographed blur.

Some pulled shovels and hoe-like brooms from an outside compartment, uncomfortably close to searing jet exhaust that spewed into the 100-degree day.

Others unpacked a bag and hooked it under the helicopter so the ship, stripped of the crew’s weight, could drop water from a nearby pond on the blaze and on firefighters if things went badly.

The crew bounded up the mountain, their constant physical training and forced consumption of water every time they pass the base water fountain showing in their swift ascent.

The helicopter that should have lifted off behind them did not. An air controller in a small fixed-wing airplane overhead had ordered the ship to hold. Within seconds, an air tanker roared overhead dropping retardant. The helicopter climbed and swung toward the pond.

By then, Burns was waving half the crew one way around the fire; Capt. Mike Rivas, with the rest, the other way. Flames licked at their elbows as they hacked control lines through walls of smoke.

Fire snaked through grass, dying at the control line. An inferno in an oak tree died in a crushing torrent of water dumped by the helicopter.

Cheers of Victory

Twenty minutes after landing, there came cheers of victory. The firefighters had linked up after encircling the fire. Their job was done: Ground crews were arriving.

The engine crews would handle “mop up,” the tedious, slog-through-the-ashes job of dousing every last ember. Investigators would probe the cause, but it was evident. A vehicle, a pile of firewood and a chain saw had been abandoned on the hilltop.

The helitack crew, which had held the blaze to three acres, would fly back to base to be in place for the next run.

The Department of Forestry, which calls itself the largest firefighting force in the world, maintains nine helitack bases throughout wildfire-plagued California in the effort to reach blazes while they are small and easily extinguished.

“Especially in inaccessible areas, it’s our job to get there first and put it out,” said Rivas.

The helicopter is playing an increasing role in wildlands firefighting because it is more like a fire engine than an air tanker, according to a recent state study. Besides shuttling a helitack crew and dropping water, it can be used for reconnaissance, rescue, evacuation and cargo delivery.

It can even be fitted with a “heli-torch,” a device that spews a stream of flames to ignite backfires.

The state study recommends expansion of helitack, but such an endeavor would have to compete with other state programs for money and could stir controversy in the private sector, which wants contract work for its helicopters.

High Human Cost

The effectiveness of the program, which the Department of Forestry says it emphasizes more than any other firefighting agency, is reflected in this year’s statistics. As of Sept. 25, 6,056 fires had burned 68,880 acres, down from last year’s 6,831 blazes and 167,696 acres.

When helitack fails to keep a fire small, the crew operates on the ground while the helicopter drops water--sometimes for days.

The human cost of the 16-year-old program is high at times.

Helitack crewman Denis Lee Cullins was burned to death in the 1987 Lauder fire in Northern California’s Mendocino region.

The Vina crew was forced to deploy fire shelters as a wall of flames roared at them during Lassen County’s Eagle fire in July.

“We could hear the fire and the wind roaring from inside the tents,” said Mike Weaver, a 22-year-old crew member with five years of helitack experience.

A firefighter with less experience ran instead of deploying a fire tent. Rivas, 33, finally was able to hold up one of the shelters so he and the firefighter could stand behind it.

“It wasn’t planned. I wasn’t trying to be a hero or anything,” Rivas said.

No one was injured, but the firefighter was fired.

One of the helicopters trying to drop water over the crew, a privately contracted ship, crashed. The pilot was not seriously injured.

‘I Kept Asking’

Helicopters also have played key roles in rescues of firefighters from engine crews or hand crews.

During the same fire, 21-year-old state firefighter Duane Wright suffered severe burns.

“I kept asking for the helicopter,” Wright said. “I remember just lying there, baking in the sun. My skin was fried, it was peeled back.”

Flying the helicopters is dangerous work, as well. Crew members, for example, are posted to watch for other aircraft in flight and helitack ships can operate only in daylight.

Costa, a 41-year-old former Army pilot in Vietnam, said operating in the mountains is particularly dangerous. The aircraft has less power in the thin air, emergency landing areas are fewer and wind currents are erratic.

In picking up water, the helicopters lack the power to pull straight up, so pilots must watch for trees and power lines during gradual, sweeping climbs.

Even working around the helicopters is dangerous: Firefighters must approach and leave in a crouched position, for example, in case the blades dip in the wind.

In the next few years, the state will replace its fleet of helicopters. When the lease of aircraft from the Air Force expires in 1991, the state will be acquiring replacement Hueys from the Department of Defense.